Can't Go Over It...Can't Go Around It...Can't Go Through It...Gotta Go South!

Sudan* has posed the greatest visa problem for us so far. Now in Addis, applicants must contact a travel agent in Sudan and even submit to some type of blood test (although we never figured out for sure what that was all about).

If we fly to Cairo (too expensive!) we still run the risk of not getting into Libya (big NO from the Libyan embassy in Addis) so, we have now decided to go south (hugging the coastline all the way) through Kenya, Tanzania, and Mozambique to South Africa.

*Faithful blog readers may be wondering when we were ever going north...but we had been secretly planning a summer in the Mediterranean to get a vacation from the travellers life.

Hopefully South Africa will have the desired effect!

Hyenas of Harar

We were all set to go at 1.00am from our hotel, the minibus driver having already picked up most of its occupants.....the roof was overflowing with hesian sacks full of local produce and babies slept cradled to their mothers backs, tightly wrapped in the shamma that supports them in their slumber.

Passing through the back streets of Harar during the day can frighten most travellers, the neglect and obnoxious smells eminating from the market place. People sleep by their stalls at night for fear that their wares will disappear as they have nowhere else to store them. At this time, predators avail of the glimmer of an opportunity to take advantage of the tiredness of the stall owners and prowl the area looking for any tasty morsel of food.

It was just then that we happened upon a hyena with canine fangs protuding through a ribbed carcass of some unfortunate animal that wasn't fast enough to get away...the hyena snarled at the beaming headlights having been caught in its wanderings looking for a midnight snack, all the while people sleeping on the ground not five feet away.

Danakil Depression

It is one of the lowest places on earth and piping hot to boot. Well water was our only option and 13 hours or 526 kilometres of dirt roads and bumps stood in front of us...we were not to know how low we could go.

Ostriches, camels and gazelle were easily viewed from the back of a 1970's Toyota pick up crammed full with goats, grain and about 30 Afar tribeswomen, bitching at Heidi because she had a good seat, so much so, they placed their feet on her lap, stretching out without a care.

A steel grill on the back of the open pick up meant that everything from gerry cans to plastic bottles could be attached on the outside and the men rode on top roughshod, being blasted by both the midday sun and 40 mph winds....

Welcome relief came in the form of a flat tyre where the groups would huddle in the shade of a bunch of palm trees while the wind eddied around causing mini duststorms.
We hugged the coast and passed dead carcasses of camels and oxen that never quite made it or provided suitable carrion for the vultures high above. Other live wild animals were so immobilized by the deadly heat and wind that they remained stationary almost stuck to the ground until there was some respite.

Although Afar was the main integral language, French was widely understood as these people constantly travel this way between Eritrea and Djibouti, not in the slightest way put out by the rough terrain and harsh conditions.

Former Eritrean army outposts and the shells of military vehicles showed the last vestiges of a war which could not ravage anything here except the seashells and scrub..it was truly desolate.

We spent an hour at the border before being cleared for a similar journey south to the port of Obock, finally resting in an auberge, reminiscing at what could have happened.....

Stuck in Time - Bowling in Asmara

As we enter the doors under the bright orange "Bowling Alley" sign most of the onlookers in the bar subtley point or shift their eyes toward the door on the left. They know why we have come and have probably seen countless before us.

We open the doors and step back in time...

The floors are wooden and shiny and the walls and windows are painted with geometric designs in retro pink, orange, red, and teal blue. Where there isn't wood, the black and white checkered tiles fill the space. Even the staircase above the tiny office has a wrought iron bowling pin designs in it.

When we inquire about the price of a game there are two prices to pay. One for the 10 frames of bowling and the score card...the other for the two boys that set the pins up for you after each roll and launch the bowling ball back to you down the wobbly track.

We set ourselves up in lanes 5 and 6 and the boys start to arrange the pins. There are rows of heavy black balls to choose from with the occasional swirly green or pink one. Their cracked exterior reminds me of the bumpy balls Fred Flintstone used to use.

There are no formalities here like fancy shoes or electronic scoreboards. It's sandles, hiking boots, and a pencil and paper. Do I still remember how to score from those days of the Saturday morning league?

The Italians left pasta, pizza, and cappuccinos for the Eritreans to enjoy...the Americans left Coca Cola and the bowling alley!

Final score Lane 5 - 37...Lane 6 - 152. I don't think I need to tell you which lane ol' twinkletoes was in!

African Delight!

Goats on hind legs picking leaves form the acacia tree
young boys riding home on a donkey's back with water for the day
military checkpoints for road tax and other dubious reasons
children playing around a giant baobab tree
straw drying in the sun on the tops of branches
the same branches stretching limbs skyward
and like tentacles under the soil
looking for every available drop of moisture


Camels carrying firewood, led by turbaned farmers
buses straining to get over steep hilltops
Bilen women dressed in the colours of the rainbow
golden parakeets and bluejays in a frenzy
women breastfeeding young babies
then attching them to a shamma
and placing them on their backs to sleep
speed is of no essence whatsoever

Live chickens been sold on buses at every available stop
along with hot roasted peanuts
children barefoot running after the wheels
Tigre, Tirganya, Arabic and some English
spoken all around us
while the high pitching wailing music has cajun written all over it
Sun is blistering by eight am
Cactus flowering on the terraced hills

Children staring wide eyed at the untanned new people
books carried home from school on the end of a belt
goats being loaded onto the roof of the bus or underneath
drivers tooting their horns round unseen bends
"Non parlate all'autista"
yoghurt served with honey
friendly smiles form beaming faces
cheroot sticks between gleaming teeth..this is why I came